Sunday, October 28, 2018

Hinge-Toothed Prophets

He was looking for a friend. I was looking for silence. My eyes stayed low, focused on my hollowing bag of plantain chips. I had gotten the last pack on the plane and the snack trolley had only gone six rows back. Admittedly, they weren't that interesting to study as they dwindled, those salty slivers I knew I shouldn't be indulging in, but I felt his eyes strong on me, neck craned to the left from his windowless window seat in my direction. But I refused to meet his eyes. Doing so would be a non-verbal contract of on-and-off conversation for the better part of three hours and forty minutes. He already told me about some of his whereabouts. "You going to Guyana?" The vessel was packed to the brim with fussy, impatient, slow-bustling, heavy-tongued and sharp-eyed travelers with Jamaican and Guyanese passports, or those who eventually traded them in for matte, navy blue USA booklets. From the look of me, I would be exiting the plane in Kingston, just like from the look of him, I knew he was Georgetown-bound. "No, Kingston," I said, a slight graze of patios trailing off my lips.

"Oh," he smiled back, revealing an endearingly tilted front tooth. Friendly Man With The Hinged Tooth And The Eager Eyes was an uncle, although I do not know if for the first, second time or otherwise. I did not ask for clarity either, but his sister was preparing to give birth and wanted him present for the baby shower. Where there was mostly joy, I could sense his irritation at the additional five hours of flight time he had ahead of him, after the grumpy aunts and uncles made their ways to May Pen or Halfway Tree or Portmore or Pembroke Hall once set free from Norman Manley in the middle of the day. "It's nighttime me reach," he continued. The rest of his explanation—something about complications with her traveling to him in New York—drowned out somewhere between the whir of the plane engine outside and the see-sawing of his thick accent. 

Eventually, though, one has to bend to warmth and good nature. The craning continued until I saw him reach down into his carryon from the corner of my eye and pull out a jumbo Ziploc bag—the kind mom uses to store her pre-seasoned chicken, fish and pork in the freezer—full of miniature sized candies. I saw his open hand extending towards me, with packets of Skittles and Swedish Fish resting in the middle. He smiled, and as I took them, so did I.

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Must I Remember?

I keep seeing the ghosts of things I've wanted but could never have. I think I have a knack for preparing people for their next best things. Or, at least it always feels that way. And since this is clearly the era of seeing, remembering--frequently, at that--even when you don't want to, I suffer. Memories real and hypothetical wring at my insides.

I saw a Him I wanted once in the train station today. He still looked like the gentleman that I knew him to be. Button down shirt, slim jeans, dress boots. Tall and lanky with the swagger of a Harlem trumpeter. A quirky tangle of locks that had nearly doubled in length since we were last in each other's midst. Engaged. Invisibly, of course. You can't tell on the outside--the She was not there--but I know. Thanks to the joy and unwanted charity of social media, and that we remained "friends" on one the most visual platforms of our generation, I see constant proof that the flame I'd hoped for three or so years ago wasn't strong enough to burn. Maybe only I convinced myself it even existed. 

We haven't really spoken since the gradual fade out--his days delayed responses to my texts cemented the inevitable. Just a "like" or two on Instagram from him to me. We have no reason to talk. I talked all could back then, tried to be forward, put myself out there. Drop every hint in the good book. He was sweet, charming, good hearted, and frustratingly oblivious. Every proverbial wink and wave went over his head. Or maybe he just chose to close his eyes. I thought we had something by how much fun we had when we hung out, how we danced, how sweetly he checked in on me, but evidently that was that imaginative mind of mine doing its thing again.

I see him, all these years later, in the heat of underground rush hour, he still does not see me. I don't want him to. I don't want to small talk. I don't want to talk about him finally getting that dream job he'd been chasing, or if he still lives in the same Harlem apartment he offered to pay for the cab from to get me safely back to Queens. I don't want to have to congratulate him on his engagement. I don't want to remember my own loneliness. Or maybe, once again, his eyes are "closed," and he's sparing me.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Whose Life Is This?

my life doesn't feel like my own. 

it's a funny thing to wake up in the morning, feel around in the darkness with my fingertips, trying to find orientation from the safety of my bed, walk over to the mirror, flick on the lights and see nothing. not literally of course. there i stand, looking back at myself, wiping the crust from my eye corners and staring down a shell. a big ball of empty housed by a brown body prepped for a daily routine of busywork, and a wandering mind, brimming with problems both real and imagined, blocking a purpose.

what am i doing? why am i doing this? wordlessly, the refrain haunts me as i fight morning fatigue, standing soapy under running warm water, fixing eggs and tea, slipping on one shoe then the other, setting foot outside, already looking forward to when that same foot will step back inside the house at the end of the day, and my bed's call will be answered. repeat.

i am 28. i am 28 and lost. i am 28 and lost and living like I have to be tethered to something solid, definite. like i should have this thing figured out. this life thing, to where it doesn't feel like i'm simply clocking in and clocking out. i am alive, technically, but existing sounds more true. my organs are working soundly enough. so are my limbs. so why isn't my mind? why isn't my heart? i'm coasting without an inkling of a love for anything, really. and coming from a girl who once had so much warmth within her, love for the simplest things, an imagination that ran wild, it's a scary contrast.

i am a woman who plans aggressively. it is something that satiates me. order comforts me. measurable foresight reassures me. but day by day, i'm learning that routine is truly the worst thing for me. it is kryptonite. days pass emptily because they are all anticipated, filled with nothing i truly look forward to but that i "have" to do to stay on a logical, straight and narrow path. to just get what needs to get done, done. i fight it and fight it and fight it, sometimes to the point of professional demise. it is a misery i cannot articulate, that i have not yet figured how to escape. no one gets it. why mess a "good" thing up?

on the outside, nothing is broken. "if it ain't broke, don't fix it," they say. things look good. in working order. 1+1=2. cool things happen from time to time. but inside, i am screaming and no one can hear me. it's my fault, though; i am my own muzzle. i understand the optics. despite the visceral torment of stagnancy, i am walking in circles and everyone is saying good job. symmetry looks amazing from the outside, right? but i just want to run and color and laugh and love and dream and fly and explore the depths of myself and never look back to that circuitous cage i call my current life. i want to find a way to sustain that, but it's 2018 and it's hard. impractical, illogical. certain to lead to more sad before happy shows up at all, tardy as fcuk to the party. but ripping away from all that is sound and right is becoming more and more of a necessity. a step closer to mental salvation.